On Target & Qualification
by rebelxxwaltz
Summary: A collaboration between rebelxxwaltz and TheGodmother2. Two unique fics written to the prompt "Walt and Vic at the gun range." Walt/Vic, some S4 spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

Hey dudes! Here is a special interlude from your regularly scheduled fic reading. Apparently I possess a special knack for being both bossy and charmingly irresistible (ahem), and have sneakily enticed TheGodmother2 away from her writing break. Don't let her fool you— I barely even had to twist her arm! ;D

What we present here are two short stories born from an identical prompt, each written in one day's time.

The prompt was essentially "Walt and Vic at the gun range," and the only agreed-upon stipulations were that the fics would contain some manner of sexy element and stay within a limit of 2,000 words. We hope you'll enjoy the results! We really had fun doing this, and got a big kick out of the differences and subtle similarities between our two versions.

A small warning here for sexual content in both installments. There's nothing especially explicit, so we agreed a T rating would be acceptable.

First we have the story I came up with, which is set during season 4 between 'Help Wanted' and 'The Calling Back.'

* * *

 _ **On Target  
**_ _ **by rebelxxwaltz**_

"Are we really gonna do this?"

The mid day sun beat down on the compacted dirt and scrubby grass patches which surrounded the weathered wood beams of the rarely-visited outdoor handgun range. Vic adjusted the Ray Bans shielding her eyes, looking askance at her companion.

Walt replied with what passed as a shrug in the slow and familiar parlance of his unique body language, more a lowering and raising of his head than anything else. His gaze drifted over to the freshly mounted paper targets in the near distance, brows crinkling.

"Why not? We came all the way out here…"

That was true. They _had_ come all the way out here. Alone. Together. After very vague prompting from Ferg, who had done nothing more than absently wonder whether the sheriff or the senior deputy was a better shot upon learning of the wildly divergent skill levels of Absaroka County's dispatched deputy applicants. Walt had made his decision to hire Zachary in the end, and with him starting on Monday this weekend would be the last they would spend as a shorthanded department.

There was a sense of relief, but Vic worried that the increase in free time would leave her with far too much opportunity to think. Work was one of the few things that had sustained her through the hailstorm of shit that had been her life since that fateful day at Chance Gilbert's place. She'd work until she was exhausted, then fall into a dreamless sleep. Who gave a fuck about nightmares when real life seemed to just go from bad to worse? The rumble of Walt's voice derailed her thoughts.

"You ready?"

Their eyes met and held, and in the back of her mind Vic wondered what they were _really_ doing here. She cleared her throat, angry at herself for feeling nervous. "Yep."

* * *

They were evenly matched, really. Vic had the training, Walt had the experience. His stance was natural, fluid, while hers displayed a technical mastery rarely found within the sparsely populated municipalities of the west. There was a strange comfort in the discharge of firearms, something oddly soothing about the shared activity. For a while, she felt like they were the old 'them,' the partners she had believed them to be before Branch's death and the painful distance that had grown between them in the aftermath. It felt _right_ being here with him, even without a single word being said.

Everything was fine until she raised her weapon to aim at one of those menacing black bear style targets, only to pull up short as his quiet question reached her ears.

"Do you think I should have kept Eamonn?"

Her finger squeezed at the trigger in surprise, nearly discharging the weapon into the forested backdrop. Good thing her reflexes were up to scratch, even if the same couldn't be said for her general sanity. "What the fuck, Walt?" She secured her sidearm, taking a couple deep breaths as she turned toward him.

Leaning his forearms on the wooden fence and pointedly avoiding eye contact, Walt appeared deep in thought. "He was competent and you seemed to like him. Just wondering if I made the wrong choice."

She echoed his pose, propping one elbow beside the nearby pillar and fixing her eyes on the side of his face as she removed her sunglasses and set them aside. "What are you really asking me?"

When he looked at her, she felt like it was the first time she'd really _seen_ him since before the whole thing with Branch and Barlow. He was letting her in, his expression one of cautious openness that reminded her of the day she'd cleaned his wound at the Red Pony.

"I'm asking you to talk to me. I've tried— maybe not hard enough, but you keep shutting me out."

Vic felt her eyebrows arching incredulously. "I'm shutting _you_ out?"

He just kept looking at her, dark blue gaze steady and lips slightly parted.

Anger swelled inside of her. "What about that shit with Nighthorse? You wouldn't tell me anything."

"You didn't believe me. What was I supposed to do?"

"You were _supposed_ to explain! Tell me what you were doing! Let me help you! You kept me in the dark, Walt." She couldn't stop herself from thinking of that night, when she'd asked him to go get a burger and he'd left her standing like a fool under the flickering street light across from the station.

"I needed to think. Nothing was making sense."

She snorted. "You're damn right about that. Then Barlow was dead, you were off the map, and I was suddenly in charge. Do you really think I was ready for that? Did you wonder about me at all? You aren't the only one who needed a fucking break, you know. Chance Gilbert, the divorce, Branch, then the FBI all over you—"

"Vic, I—"

"No," she interrupted, jabbing a finger into the chest pocket of his faded denim shirt. "You wanted me to talk, and I'm talking."

His eyes flickered between the finger and her face, his expression unreadable.

"So yeah. Eamonn was there. He knew how to do his job, he took orders, and he stopped me from going bat shit crazy trying to keep the department functioning when I could hardly make it through the day. That's all it was, Walt." It was the truth; Vic had known it the moment she'd heard that feminine voice on the other end of Eamonn's line and felt _nothing_ , other than disgusted with herself.

There was a moment of hesitation. Walt looked at the ground, expression hardening as his head came back up. "I felt like you replaced me with him. I didn't like it."

"What was I supposed to do?" She realized she was parroting his words from before, but there was no other way to ask it. "He was there, you weren't. I needed the support."

Walt had moved closer, close enough for the toe of his boot to touch hers. His reply was a low murmur. "So did I."

Releasing a long, shaky breath, Vic leaned into him just slightly. "We really fucked it up, didn't we?"

Fingers brushed softly over the skin of her cheek, tucking a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear as the side of his thumb traced the line of her jaw. "It's not too late."

Vic trembled, burying her face into the crook of Walt's neck and looking out across the deserted range. "We didn't finish shooting." It was a deflection, a meaningless delay in the face of the inevitable.

One of his arms snaked around her, fingers splayed at her belt line and sliding lower. His voice was rough and honeyed against her ear. "I think we're both back on target, now."

Their lips met, and it was like gunpowder igniting in the chamber.

* * *

It was two o'clock in the afternoon and Vic was glad as hell that she didn't have any near neighbors. Walt's hands were all over her as she fumbled for her house keys, and he almost tripped on a pile of rolled up newspapers that had accumulated beside the door. He seemed momentarily distracted by the unsightly debris.

"What—"

She'd managed to get the door open. Shoving the keys back in her jacket pocket, she turned around and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat to drag him forward. Just feeling the heat rolling off him was making her short of breath. "Walt. I know you fucking hate litter, but can we focus on the task at hand?"

They'd come here only because her place was closer. In spite of Walt's enthusiasm and the bulge in his jeans that caused a damp ache between her legs, she hadn't been able to convince him that the gun range was a totally awesome place to have wild, intense monkey sex on a Saturday afternoon— especially after three good ol' boys in RealTree t-shirts and trucker hats had driven past on their way to the rifle range. With her newfound freedom to touch him it was a miracle they'd made it here without crashing the Bronco and perishing in a lewd, gasoline-fueled explosion. His hat hadn't survived the journey, having been flung behind their seats as she distracted him from the act of fastening his seat belt.

Jackets hitting the floor they struggled out of their boots and Vic gasped as Walt pressed her against the wall between the door and the stairs. He groaned as his teeth scraped the skin of her neck, soothing the area with his lips and tongue as his fingers tugged at the buttons on her shirt. His was much easier to unfasten, snaps popping with a satisfying sound at her command, but tugging his shirttails out of his jeans was proving to be a struggle. Vic made a frustrated noise, reaching for Walt's belt buckle and doing what she had imagined so many times, unfastening his belt and swiftly attacking the buttons of his Levis.

Her shirt was still hanging off of one arm when Walt's entire right hand pressed against the side of her neck, tilting her face upward and breathing her name against her lips as he bent to kiss her deeply. Fingers were sliding over bare skin wherever they could find it, and Vic surrendered completely as Walt ran his hands over the back of her jeans and urged her legs to wrap around him as he lifted her off the floor. The sensation of being carried up the stairs was new and dizzying, and Vic was glad she'd tidied up and thrown her laundry in the hamper, at least.

The unmade bed didn't seem like a problem, merely saving them the effort of wrecking it as they fell onto the mattress and further into each other. They grasped and tussled, filling the air with whispered encouragements and breathless half-phrases. Vic's hair had come loose, spilling across the plush pillow as Walt's naked form rolled on top of her and pinned both her wrists to the bed. Their bodies were fused, no air between them, and she squirmed her hips in a bid to make that final connection.

Walt looked down at her, eyes soft but somewhat anxious. "I've wanted this for so long. I—"

"Shhh, I know." Vic freed one of her hands and dragged her palm down to the base of his spine, urging him inside.

From there it was an escalating spiral of heat and motion. Walt would choke out a noise that made her spasm, the way Vic clenched around him would cause Walt to fuck her even harder, and soon the box springs were squeaking and one of her legs was draped over his elbow as he pressed upward and inward repeatedly to grind himself as deep as he could go.

Vic came first, arching and clutching at Walt as he sailed over the edge on the sound wave of her shouting his name. It was one of those long, pulsing, jerking climaxes with aftershocks extending into the boneless embrace that followed hot on its heels.

They were still for a long time, wrapped around each other as they absorbed the sudden and serious change in their relationship. The prospect was daunting... Vic was the first to break the silence.

"Fuck, Walt… this is going to be okay, right?" She raised her head to find him already watching her, erotically tousled and overwhelmingly handsome.

Walt's smile was somewhat boyish in the filtered afternoon light, his chest warm against Vic's own as he tugged her upper body down onto his. "Yep."

He pulled her into a slow kiss, full of words unspoken. Vic knew what he was saying, though— it was in her heart and mind as well. This was them, now, after everything. As Walt's fingers twisted gently into her hair and her eyelids fluttered shut, Vic idly wondered whether maybe she believed in second chances after all.

* * *

Click through to read GM2's fic, and be sure to let us know what you think of each version! :D


	2. Chapter 2

Here is TheGodmother2's contribution to our little fic-off (hmm should probably come up with a different term for this LOL). I personally think it's dynamite, but that's just my opinion! :D

This version is set post season 4.

* * *

 _ **Qualification** **  
** **by TheGodmother2**_

"This is bullshit." It's the most she's said all week.

He felt the frown appear on his face as he shifted his weight, redistributed his hands on his hips and his sidearm, but he never looked at her. He doesn't look at her much anymore.

Agent Stockton checked her, "Listen, Deputy Moretti, you don't really have a choice here." His hazel eyes turning nearly green at her overt insubordination.

"I'm not the one that fucked up."

The seasoned federal agent looks at Walt with disbelief and a hint of disdain.

"You're a member of the department, Moretti. You have to meet compliance with the commission's report, that and shoddy record keeping, means you haven't qualified with your duty weapon. I suggest you get your mind right and meet my agent at the range at 1500 hours. If you no longer wish to work for the department we can arrange for your official separation. I will accommodate you either way even if the Sheriff won't."

She flashes her chestnut eyes at Stockton then at Walt because she knows a conversation has taken place that includes her, is about her, and she's resentful of that just as she is resentful of him and his inability to make sound decisions. She's just as guilty. She knows that. They never talk about it or anything anymore. It just sits there between them.

"Fine." She acquiesces and she walks out.

"She's a pistol." Stockton says to Walt's expressionless face.

"Among other things." He doesn't laugh, he doesn't smile; he just turns and walks back into his office very much aware of his failures.

"Well, you just have to worry about Moretti and yourself. The commission accepted Ferguson's shooting scores from the training he took in Cheyenne last year."

Walt nods his head and thanks the agent and seriously considers if he should wear his vest when he's on the range with Vic.

She parks at the far end of the gravely dirt lot away from the Bronco. It's a calculated maneuver. It's 1500 on the dot when she ambles up to the firing line and smiles broadly at the FBI range master.

Vic extends her right hand, tucks her Ray Bans in her open shirt, "Hi, I'm Vic."

"Billy, nice to meet you Vic." His blue eyes shine brightly into hers and his dark brown permanently tanned outdoor skin is beautifully sun kissed. "You ready to get some shootin' done?"

"Hell, yeah." Her mood shifting but aware of the pain drifting back and forth between the stalwart figure next to her like the wind blowing from the mountain basin.

Billy goes through the customary range safety rules and they pay attention, locked on his every word, as they take their positions on the outdoor range without clearly defined lines of demarcation. They wear their hearing and eye protection and resemble country cartoon characters in their faded jeans and button up shirts.

"Ready on the line." Billy yells out as he takes his position behind them.

"Shooters, you will fire five rounds in seven seconds."

He waits a beat, "Fire."

They draw, aim, and fire at their respective targets.

Going through the drills at different distances, following Billy's orders, including safety drills and reloading they pass the qualification course. Billy counts up Walt's score and hands him his target.

"Nice shootin', Sheriff." Billy smiles.

"Thanks." He's expressionless.

Billy stands next to Vic as he counts her final score, "So, I recommend that you both wear your vests and train with them on the range."

"Good luck with that." She says.

"What Sheriff you don't believe in protection?" Billy asks

"Never wore one. Don't plan on doing it now."

"You can't ignore the fact that the bad guys are a different breed nowadays."

"Just watch him." She says and looks down at her boots then glances back up.

Silently, Walt walks over to the cleaning bench and begins disassembling his Colt 1911.

"Your boss doesn't say much?"

"Nope."

"You should come work with us, Vic. You shoot well. You would love the Bureau." He smiles and it's bright and youthful and full of potential. She's been here before, more than once, and as fun as it is playing with him she doesn't want to play. She has no interest in repeating the past.

"I wouldn't fit in."

He pushes into her shoulder with his side in a playful, gentle and seductive way and his smile gets brighter if that were even possible.

"As much as I don't want to admit it I like it here."

Billy looks over his shoulder back toward Walt because he can feel the burn on the back of his neck.

"You mean you like your sour puss boss."

She looks over at him and keeps her thoughts to herself.

"Hmm." Billy says and finishes scoring her target. He places his initials in the corner.

"You shot 290 out of 300. You lost 10 points for this drop." He leans in and points to the near miss, next to the paper carotid artery, and his bare tanned arm presses sweetly against hers.

"Damn." She says, "Well it would have got his fucking attention."

Billy smiles again.

"What?" Vic says because she can't help herself. It's who she is no matter how hard she tries not to be this way.

"There's just something about a girl not afraid to drop the F-bomb."

Vic smiles and Billy says quietly, "The Sheriff is one jealous motherfucker, Vic. I've always scored pretty high in the powers of observation and he's about to burn a hole in the back of my head. As much as I would like to ask you to grab a burger and a beer before I leave this sleepy ass town I won't because I don't want to wear out my welcome."

The remaining sunlight bounces off of her blonde locks as she turns and looks over at Walt and his long frame drapes against the afternoon light pitching a perfect frame of how she remembers him and how he appears in her dreams. His head tilts down as he reloads his magazines, putting one in his Colt, rendering it in condition two, rare for the single action. She watches his nimble fingers as he holsters and for just a moment she forgets about everything and her face flushes at the thought of him and how much she misses him and yearns for him.

"Yeah, well." She trails off.

Billy hands Vic her target and scribes his number in the corner, he winks, "If you ever get to Cheyenne call me. Keep this to remember me by."

"Thank you, Billy."

"You're welcome, Vic."

Walt walks over and extends his hand.

"Thanks for your time." He says as the two men shake hands.

"No, problem, Sheriff. "

Still shaking his hand, Walt smiles as he pleasantly yet fiercely stakes his position.

Billy waves as he leaves the parking lot and Vic flicks her fingers in a perfect V formation.

"Deuces." She says under her breath.

"That wasn't so bad." She says and he looks down at her and for a moment she sees him, the one he hides from her.

"Yup."

"Why are you such an asshole, Walt?"

His fingers go immediately into his chest, "I'm an asshole?" His voice is deep and low and in disbelief.

"What do you call all of that?"

"Listen, Vic. You don't talk to me. You made it clear you don't want to be here."

"Fuck you, Walt." She turns away from him and starts toward her truck. She hears the slight drag of his right foot, the spit hitting the gravel, and she pictures the dip of his hip as he steps and she hates that she thinks of it or that she notices it or that she's imagines his snake hips under the grip of her hands.

"Vic." He says, his hand on the inside of her arm.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" It's here, it's loud and the rage refuses to be hidden any longer.

"Vic." She sees the opening in his eyes, his fingers tighten, his voice softens it's almost weak, "Vic, can we talk about it?"

"It's too late." Tears she didn't know were there fall from her eyes.

He pulls her into him and she pushes back with her forearms against his chest and she can feel his hair on her skin and the heat pulsating from him and she can smell the woodsy sweat soaked in his shirt.

"Vic, talk to me."

Her voice softens, "You're such an asshole."

"I know I am." His voice cracks, "I'm sorry, Vic."

His arms tighten around her and hers fall around his waist and her tears subside as she grips his shirt feeling his breath on her ear and his lips on her neck as they trail to her ear and he whispers, "I've missed you."

She feels her chest rise at the unexpected need for air and the ache to be closer to him fills every pore and his lips are on her neck again and this time when she pulls back he lets go and their eyes find each other, finally.

She steps into him and grips his shirt and when their lips meet its more than she ever imagined.

"How could you fuck her?" She says, teeth clinched, denim filled fists.

"I didn't." His eyes never waver and the edges of his jaw flex, "But I want you to stop."

"Stop, what?"

"Giving other men what's mine."

Their tongues wrap and tangle and their mouths are an inferno. She rips open his shirt and he stumbles back with the gravel beneath his boots but it's not shock on his face when he steps forward into her, his huge hands gripping her side, her legs wrap around him and he steps toward the Bronco pressing her back against the door.

He tries to get the keys out of his pocket but he never accounted for having an erection of this magnitude pressing his pants tight and he can't get his long thick fingers into the slit at the front of his jeans. She reaches down and her hand finds what she's looking for and her eyes are hungry as she growls in his ear, "Fuck, Walt."

"Yeah."

He says, his shirt down around his waist, his arms hostage by the buttoned sleeves, his hands pressed into her curves, as she finds and bites the nipples hidden by strands of blonde, brown and gray hair. He hears the moans escaping from his throat, his fingers fighting her belt buckle, finally winning.

"What are you waiting for?" She asks looking into his cobalt blue eyes giving him permission. She leans forward and she can feel the soft sweep of hair on her neck as she whispers, "Fuck me."

He growls back, "Only if you fuck me back."

The elongated canines are revealed by the parting of her thick lips.

He pulls her pants and panties in one swoop just low enough and she doesn't bother with the belt, the buckle, or anything but the three middle buttons and he's inside of her and she's wet, hot and smooth, and all the things he's imagined. It's fast and it's hard and he thinks they are going to dent the door but he doesn't care.

She pulls his hair, his head goes back, as he pushes harder and he feels her thighs tighten around his waist and she tightens around him as his face melts from the release and she groans in his ear. They catch their breath, still intertwined, he opens his eyes and his black eyes stare at her, and he leans in and kisses her with the hunger she always knew existed.

"I'm not waiting till next year to qualify." He growls in her ear and she feels his voice travel down her spine.

"We're never going to fucking stop."

"Stop, fucking, nope, never." He smiles into her mouth.

* * *

Well there you have it! It just goes to show, there are a multitude of different ways to keep this ship sailing. Drop us a line to let us know what you thought, and keep that Walt/Vic torch alight!


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